Wrapped in Guilt, Sealed Up Tight
by Sahkess
Summary: Bobby watches as one brother falls apart over the loss of the other. CANON CHARACTER DEATH.


_Wrapped in Guilt, Sealed up Tight_

Summary: Bobby watches as one brother falls apart over the loss of the other. IMPORTANT: Canon Character Death.

A/N: Guess I'm feeling angsty today…hope you like. The title is from Shinedown's _45_.

Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, or the show, or Bobby, or the heaping mounds of angst this show loves to dish out to our hungry selves.

* * *

They walked through the door in silence. Bobby's house was empty. Cold. Lifeless.

Like that boy's eyes.

There was no talking. No light conversation to be made. No important talks about what to do next. Just a body, wrapped in a sheet, laid out on the bed in the back room.

They had cleaned the body as best they could. Dressed him—it, not him, he was gone, somewhere else—in his best clothing, laid him down again.

All in silence.

* * *

Bobby made dinner. He didn't know what else to do.

It felt surreal, a dream world filled with agony and pain and sorrow. Wrapped up in a hazy quilt of guilt.

He glanced at the Winchester sitting on the couch in his living room. His eyes matched his brother's: no life in them. Not a single muscle moved. Indiscernible breaths taken.

His stillness was fitting. The boys had always been so closely connected. When one died, it only made sense that the other one would too. Maybe not in body, maybe not in mind, but in soul…

The food was ready before he knew it. He didn't even notice his hands had been working on it. Didn't even know what he had made. It didn't matter. It would be empty, just like everything else.

He brought the plates and silverware and drinks to the couch. Bobby didn't want to ask him to move. Karen would have been worried about the food spilling on the couches, would have insisted on the dining room instead. It didn't matter. He supposed that in another life, the worries would have been justified, but it wasn't likely the food would ever move from the plates.

He looked over at the boy. John's boy, his boy, one he had looked after for years. One he had seen through thick and thin, and finally saw him grow up into a fine man.

Right now though, he looked…old beyond his years. Like a veteran who had seen too much in his time. A man who had lost everything. A tortured empty shell.

And it broke Bobby's heart a little more.

* * *

Their food lay untouched on the plates.

Bobby glanced over to him once more. His eyes were focused on the door. Waiting, as if any second his brother would burst through with a smile on his face and a joke on his lips. Waiting for something, anything. A miracle.

But they didn't believe in miracles anymore. Miracles were a sick joke, a cruel promise of hope that left people broken, shattered into pathetic pieces that no amount of glue could put together again.

* * *

He took a breath. Something had to be said.

"…Sam—"

"No."

Bobby started slightly. It was the first thing he had said since the house. Even then, his only words had been to ask for a sheet to cover his brother with.

"I just wanted to you know—"

"Don't say it. You can't say it." Sam's voice was lifeless, just like his eyes.

"You know it's not—"

"Yes it is." A small flicker of true emotion poured forth in that statement. Anger. Guilt. "It's on me, alright? So don't give me that crap."

Bobby sighed. "Alright."

They fell into silence again. Sam looked away, shifted back into the couch, like if he tried hard enough he could sink into it, join into the peaceful nothingness they both so desired.

Another deep breath. Another point that had to be said. He couldn't believe he would have to bring this up again, first with one Winchester boy, then the other.

"Sam, I know you don't want to hear this, but…I think, maybe…

…maybe it's time to give Dean his hunter's funeral."

Sam looked up. Looked at him, for the first time in two days. Slowly stood.

Bobby realized it. He shouldn't have said his name. Saying that name…made it real.

Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Sam lost it.

The plate went first, flying and shattering into the nearest wall with so much force the wall received a hearty dent. Bobby's silverware and glasses were next, followed by all of the books and glassware on the coffee table, with a quick brush of Sam's hand. The table was flipped, cracking as it collided with the carpet beneath it. He lunged for the bookcase, pulling it forward and tipping it down, not stopping to watch as each book tumbled out of its place to join in a heap on the floor as the wooden case followed. The lamp on the side table made another crash on the floor.

Bobby did nothing, just watched as Sam tore his room apart. Watched as Sam went for the pillows and cushions on his couch, ripping them apart with his bare hands and then flipping the couch itself. Watched as Sam finally paused, taking in what he was doing. Watched as his boy finally sagged to the ground, landing on top of his own destruction, breathing heavily. Watched him place his head in his hands, letting out a sob as all he had tried to contain within himself came rushing out as the floodgates broke.

Bobby did nothing. He couldn't. Couldn't bring himself to say anything. Couldn't bring himself to comfort the boy who had just fallen apart in front of him. Couldn't bring himself to stop the tears that had begun to fall with ease from his own eyes, each one containing a different memory of the elder Winchester. Each one a reminder of what he had lost, what they had lost.

So instead he watched as Sam curled into himself, whispering to the air. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, please, please come back, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_.

* * *

The minutes passed. It may have been hours. May have been days, years for all he knew and cared. Time could pass as much as it wanted, it wouldn't change anything. They couldn't make time go backwards, couldn't unravel the hands of the clock enough to make a difference.

Sam rose, face bearing the marks of the tortured soul he was. He wiped the moisture from his eyes and cheeks. The lifeless stare was back. He turned to Bobby, steel resolve in his posture, and spoke again.

"No hunter's funeral. I'll bury him."

End.


End file.
